Musings on the road to recovery

This morning Mr RR’s alarm went, reminding him to get up and me to take my first lot of tablets of the day. He, as is his wont, swiftly bounced out of bed, full of the joy of Spring and happy to be alive…or not. Instead, he turned off his alarm, snuggled down deeper into the duvet and was soon dreaming of fluffy clouds, sheep and probably nubile ladies. I, however, was awake. Wide awake. It did cross my mind to get up, but, well, the pain was bad and, ah I erm….OK, hands up, I admit it. I didn’t get up as I’m lazy, but in my defence, I knew had I gotten up, I’d have only had to come back to bed an hour later when my body decided it hadn’t had enough sleep. My mind turned to plans for the day and, randomly, top of the list of things I’d most like to do, came reading, baking and breadmaking. Now, this may seem like an odd thing to be blogging about, reading, making cakes and bread but due to the Depression, I’ve not wanted to bake for some time. I’ve done it sporadically, largely when Mr RR starts staring at me with those puppy dog eyes, pleading with me to make a lemon drizzle cake, and, being the fabulous wife I am, I wholeheartedly refuse, only to give in a few minutes later.

Reading – well, I’ve always loved reading since I was a child. I loved how you could disappear into a book and be someone else for an hour or two, totally immerse yourself in the storyline, the characters and the ultimate happy ending. (I try not to choose sad books as I get too involved and end up weeping for hours – The Time Traveller’s Wife being a prime example.) In any case, since April last year, I’ve not enjoyed reading. I just didn’t take any pleasure from it and it became a chore. I’d get books from the library out of habit and take them back without even opening them. My interest however has recently been ignited by two series of very trashy science-fiction/romance type novels (bodice rippers if I’m being entirely honest) and although I can’t be bothered with anything else, I’m enjoying reading these.

So, this morning, my first task of the day, post Weetabix breakfast of course, was to bake some bread. Now, if you’re anything like me, mention bread making and the image that comes to mind is of country type kitchen, a homely yet attractive looking woman clad in an apron, rosy cheeked, preparing the dough lovingly by hand, popping it in the oven and producing a perfect loaf that would make Mr Warburton weep with envy, all without breaking sweat. In stark contrast what actually happens is this: I put my track suit bottoms on, coupled with an old t shirt and weigh the ingredients, shove them into the Kenwood with the dough hook on and turn it on, liberally coating the entire kitchen with flour as I do so, as I’ve yet to buy a cover for it . Covered in flour, I now pummel the dough, pretending that it’s the most disliked person du jour as I do so, put into the bread tins, wait impatiently for it to rise, raising the tea towel at frequent intervals to see if it has risen, much in the same way as a bored child asks “are we there yet?” when 5 minutes into a 5 hour journey, then stick it in the oven. Are your illusions thoroughly shattered now?

The finished products:

I did also make a lemon drizzle cake though for Mr RR, along with some lemon shortbread (we had an abundance of lemons) and all of these goodies are now sat in the kitchen, save the bread which has been mostly eaten already. Not just by me, I hasten to add, lest you think I belong with the Fat Families team, being shouted at by that Steve Miller man who is quite odious, no the lady who does the garden had some as well. Now all I have to do is to spend the rest of the afternoon ignoring the calls of the lemon drizzle slices which are pleading to be eaten. Stick of celery anyone?